


The Nightmare Before Halloween

by emeraldcitydowntowngirl



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Allergies, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M, also?? not at all medically accurate i dont know shit about anything, lots of talking about dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-03 07:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldcitydowntowngirl/pseuds/emeraldcitydowntowngirl
Summary: The one where Patrick has a peanut allergy, Pete likes wearing skirts, and "The Nightmare Before Christmas" is definitely NOT a Halloween movie.





	The Nightmare Before Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> nightmare before christmas IS a christmas movie -_- my mind cannot be changed

Patrick is… well, sort of a boring person.

Or, no, _introverted_ is a better word for it. He’s not boring, he just… doesn’t really go out much except to the studio on campus, and he doesn’t really talk much either, unless he’s with a group of friends that he feels comfortable with, and he’s not rude, or anything like that, he can carry a conversation and once you get him talking, he never stops, but if you don’t make the effort, he’s just… _quiet_. He’s quiet and he drifts through the background of every party he attends and he just ends up sitting in a corner, drinking cheap beer by himself, messaging some guy on Grindr that he doesn’t plan on meeting up with because of his anxiety. And he stays there, until one of his friends is too drunk to function and asks to leave.

It’s not a fun process.

It happens every time.

So, he’s not necessarily sure why he’s agreeing to _this_.

He, Travie, and Vicky are huddled together behind the towels display at work, effectively hiding from the Sunday afternoon rush on the floor. It’s a little hard for Travie to hide since he’s 6 foot 5, so he’s sitting crisscross applesauce on the carpeted ground, and since it’d be super weird for Patrick and Vicky to be standing, they’re sitting too. This, to them, makes sense.

“I just want people to show up,” Vicky tells them, before she backtracks. “Not that, not that we aren’t friends and that’s not why—what I’m saying is, I would really appreciate it if you guys came, is all. It’s gonna be fun! Some of my friends owe me so they’re bringing all the drinks, you don’t have to bring your own, and my other friend Gabe is gonna DJ, and my other friend is gonna help decorate… and my other other friend is make homemade dip. Dudes, I bought a shift worth of disco balls. _A shift._ ”

“You have a lot of friends,” Patrick notes, a little off-topic.

Vicky shrugs. “I’m a sociable person. _Oh_ , and you guys have to wear costumes. Because duh, Halloween party. If you show up to my party looking like this, you’re ruining the vibe.”

She points to Patrick’s work outfit- black polo shirt and jeans and some ratty sneakers. And his name tag that says **PATRICK.**

“Well, the thing is, I might have to do homework,” Patrick begins to say, and Travie reaches over and shoves at his knee. “Stop being lame.”

“I mean, I _might_ ,” Patrick argues. He looks over to Vicky and motions to himself.  “Honestly, I mean, do I look like the type of person who’d dress up in a crazy costume? And _party_? For _fun_?”

“All I’m saying is, I know you and your most recent boyfriend broke up a month ago, and I have a lot of single friends,” Vicky tells him matter-of-factly.

Patrick crosses his arms and tries not to look like that totally caught him off-guard.  Because it did. He’s a private person and that breakup ruined his life and he’s not sure how he feels about _Vicky from work_ knowing about it. “...who told you that?”

“I have eyes everywhere,” she waves him off. “Anyway. Yeah! Single friends, a bunch who’d love a nerd like you. Glasses are cute!”

“ _Thanks,_ ” Patrick grumbles, adjusting his glasses now that he’s been reminded of them. “But I don’t think I’m quite ready to mingle yet. Or ever.”

“Come on man,” Travie pushes. “That dude was shitty for you, you deserve to get drunk and grind on some sexy stranger to forget about him.”

“Like me, a lot of my friends are sexy. My friend Pete is going through this ‘wearing skirts’ thing, they look hot on him, and he’s single!” Vicky interjects, but it gets lost in the midst of Patrick’s ranting.

“I _have_ gotten drunk about it, first of all. But now…  I don’t want to do something I’ll regret. I should pour my sorrows into… into _studying_ so that it’ll actually be worth something in the end. Instead of it ending up in puke all over Vicky’s living room.”

“That reminds me, you guys can get sloppy but I’m not cleaning puke so if you think you’re gonna vomit, you have to go outside and do it in my neighbors trash can.”

“Thanks V, I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” Travie jokes. “Anyways, I’m going. Free drinks, right?”

“Free drinks,” she confirms. Then, she turns back to Patrick. “Come onnnnnn, Patrick! It’ll be fuuuuunnnnnn…... Free drinks…... Semi-good music………”

There’s a customer nearby, but none of them make any effort to move.

“You haven’t been to a party in months,” Travie reminds him. “And you aren’t going to get a boyfriend by staying home. It’s gonna be fun, like Vicky said!”

“Fun for _you_ , because you’ll have someone to drag you home,” Patrick stresses. “If I go to this, I’m drinking too.”

“So fine, you guys can walk, I live near campus! Come on, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

“This is— this is _peer pressure!_ ” Patrick looks between them. “And I don’t understand why you both want me to go so badly but…  but _God_ , fine, whatever! I’ll come!”

Vicky cheers. “YES! Hayley owes me twenty bucks.”

 _Now_ it all makes sense. Patrick drops his head into his hands and groans.

“What, she said you wouldn’t be able to get him to come?” Travie asks, grinning, and Vicky nods. “Yup. But, uh, I’m genuinely happy you’re coming, Trix. Even if you do just sit in a corner and sulk.”

“Yeah right, this is—”

“Can _one_ of you help me out?” the customer, who’s been standing and waiting for the three of them to finish their conversation for the better part of a minute now, asks. “And I’m pretty sure there’s someone in the curtain section who was yelling for help too.”

Vicky, Patrick, and Travie all glance at each other before they reluctantly get up. Patrick helps the towel lady, Travie goes to help the curtain person, and Vicky goes to find Hayley to get her twenty bucks.

* * *

“Wow! That is… _all_ kinds of awful.”

This is what Travie greets Patrick with when he shows up at Patrick’s door on Halloween Eve—the night of the party.

Patrick scowls.

“Fuck off. I don’t even wanna go to this stupid party.”

“No one is forcing you,” Travie tells him, stepping into Patrick’s apartment. They live in the same building, Travie’s only a floor above him, so Patrick doesn’t have the pleasure of not beeping Travie in. And as for letting Travie into his apartment… that just sort of happens on its own.

Travie’s dressed as a vampire—he’s wearing fake fangs and red contact lenses and he’s wearing a blazer that’s tinted red with last year’s fake blood. Because that’s what Travie was last year.

“Well, everyone made a big deal out of me coming,” Patrick’s scowl deepens. “Vic made, like, 60 bucks off of it. But I wasn’t going to  waste my time and put any actual effort into it.”

He’s wearing sweatpants with a salsa stain on the right knee, a turtleneck, black socks, Joe’s Adidas slides, and a thick and stuffy blue winter coat. _This_ is his costume.

“What the hell are you supposed to be, anyway?” Travie asks.

“Cold,” Patrick tells him. “ _'_ _What’re you?’ ‘Oh, I’m cold’._ ”

Travie shakes his head. “Laziness is one of the most hopeless diseases, for which there is no cure.”

“That’s… so not true. And also _cheap_ coming from the guy wearing last year’s costume! Did Gee lend you his fake blood again?” Patrick asks - Gerard Way, who lives two doors down, always has a bunch of spare containers of fake blood just lying around this time of the year. Containers of fake blood that smell and feel suspiciously like real blood, but no one blinks an eye at it even though out of anyone in the world, _Gerard Way_ would be an actual vampire.

“Maybe,” Travie shrugs. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and he’s headed for the door, but Travie stops him by placing his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Do you have your Epi-Pen?”

Patrick rolls his eyes as if he doesn’t have a severe peanut allergy that could legitimately kill him. “No.”

And so, Patrick reluctantly makes the trip to the bathroom to grab his spare one—the other one lives in the front of his backpack. And that’s the thing—he has this peanut allergy but he’s not a fucking idiot. He asks if things have peanuts in them before he eats them. And if people don’t know, then he doesn’t have them. It’s as simple as that—the Epi-Pen is something heavy in his pocket, and it’s annoying to remember, and the prospect of having to actually use it is so _embarrassing_. The thought of having to call an ambulance and having to be taken to the emergency room is enough for Patrick to actually _want_ to die.

“Just saying, tonight could be the night that you dig into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without knowing,” Travie tells him as Patrick locks the door behind him, and Patrick grumbles under his breath for Travie to fuck off.

Patrick’s a lot of things, really insecure sometimes, really introverted and quiet other times, but the one thing he’s not, is a moron.

* * *

When he and Travie pull up to Vicky’s house, the first thing they notice is that the windows are shaking with how loud the bass from the music is. They’re blasting Eminem’s ‘3am’ and it’s only 11PM. This is looking. _Weird_.

“Oh my God,” Patrick says, blinking at the house from the gate. “Is this happening?”

Travie’s still a little in awe at the song choice, the fact that the house looks like it’s shaking, and at the realization that Vicky’s stringed lights got put to use- pinks and blues and greens filter through the windows and illuminate their faces. There’s a couple of people chillin on the porch, decorated entirely with huge fake spiders and bats and jack-o-lanterns with creepy faces, and they give Travie and Patrick sideway glances because they look so underdressed. Vicky’s friends _dressed up._ Italics necessary.

Eminem’s voice, clear as day, rapping“ _the sight of blood excites me, that might be an artery son, your blood-curdling screams just don’t seem to bother me none_ ” makes both Patrick and Travie burst into laughter, and with that, they venture into the house, pushing fake spider webs in the doorway out of their way.

The temperature change compared to being outside is insane. Patrick immediately feels a little too warm in his get-up, that’s what a turtleneck and a fluffy winter coat will do to a person, but he deals with it in the meantime, at least until he finds Vicky and tells her hello. He’s already searching for a place near an outlet, so he can plug in his phone and be anti-social with his Red Bull and Vodka.

While Travie’s still with him, Patrick knows he’s going to disappear sooner rather than later, the both of them head for the kitchen, where the drinks are, and there, they find Vicky. Vicky, who’s dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, if Dorothy’s dress was a foot shorter, and if Dorothy's dress was designed to show as much cleavage as possible.

“What the hell!” She yells when she sees Patrick. She points to him, shaking her head, and when she tries to walk over, she stumbles. “That’s not a costume! That’s me going to my 8am in the heart of December! Are you supposed to be me?!”

Patrick winces. “I’m—I’m supposed to be cold! Like, like _‘hey, what’re you?’_ _‘Oh, I’m cold!_ ’”

“That’s shitty!” Vicky screams back—she’s yelling because of the music. 5% TINT by Travis Scott is the soundtrack for this moment. “I was hoping you’d show up as… Slutty Rocky from Rocky Horror.”

“Isn’t Rocky already slutty, just as is?!” Patrick asks, and Travie places a drink in his hand without Patrick asking for one, like a true best friend. “I’m sure no one in their right mind wants to see _me_ in a gold bikini bottom with no top on.”

“Ugh, get out of my sight, I can’t stand to look at your costume,” Vicky tells him, before she picks up a jello-shot. “Go find Hayley so that I get my twenty bucks because she said she wouldn’t give it to me until she saw the proof.”

And with that, Patrick is dismissed. He turns around to trail behind Travie, but Travie is no longer there. And once Patrick loses one of his friends, he doesn’t find them back until the end of the night, unless he bumps into them on the line to pee, or unless he walks in on them having sex in a deserted bedroom that he was hoping to take a nap in.

He ends up making himself another drink because he downs the first one without a blink, and he makes his way to the living room, where the chairs from the dining room table are. Unfortunately, the living room is where the makeshift dance floor is, so Patrick’s stuck watching sweaty people grind on each other to music that’s being controlled by a tall guy wearing half a yellow Teletubby outfit. He waves to Hayley who’s dancing with her girlfriend to, now,”Heads Will Roll”, and Hayley shrieks upon seeing Patrick, but not even she makes an effort to get Patrick on the floor, because she knows the way that Patrick stays—fucking boring.

He’s about to open Grindr, to half sext someone who he knows isn’t interested in him, because he’s feeling a little tipsy, now on his 3rd drink, when the song that the Teletubby DJ is playing sparks his interest—“Somebody’s Watching Me” by Rockwell. And that’s his favorite Halloween song, mostly because of Michael Jackson on the chorus, so he looks up.

And there’s this stranger.

They’re wearing the weirdest, sexiest outfit Patrick’s ever seen in his 21 years of living, and Patrick doesn’t know whether to look away or to keep staring because it’s that hot. They’re wearing a black lace top, but it’s sheer so all of their tattoos are still showing, and Patrick didn’t even _know_ that he liked tattoos like that, but he likes them now. And they’re wearing a latex red skirt and black fishnet stockings with red heels that match the skirt, and, and they’re wearing a beret on their head that has devil horns sticking out of the fabric, and it’s too much happening at once, but Patrick’s lost in the way that their hoop earrings swing with how much they’re dancing to even think about it being the most overwhelming sight in the world.

He’s sort of mesmerized.

He feels insane.

He only comes back to reality when the song’s about to end, and he’s still watching whoever they are freaking out on the dance floor. Except the lyrics are starting to sink in, and the stranger is pointing to _him_ and lip-synching a little aggressively, _“I always feel like somebody’s watching me and I have no privacy!”_

Patrick’s eyes widen and he looks to his left and right to see if they’re pointing to anyone else, but no, it’s him. He shifts in his seat and he looks away, to pretend like he wasn’t almost drooling, even though he can see them coming closer from the corner of his eye, still dancing as the song peters out. _“I always feel like somebody’s watching me!”_

They sit on the chair next to Patrick’s and they lean across to yell in his ear, so that they can be heard over the music, which has switched over to something from Rocky Horror. Part of Patrick is expecting a sensual voice, something sultry that’ll match the smokey eyeshadow look that they have, but their voice is rough and piercing, like their grip on Patrick’s thigh, to keep him in place.  “The fuck is your problem? You’ve been staring at me for 3 minutes straight. Is it because I’m a dude in a skirt, because if it is, you’re a piece of shit and I think you should get over it.”

 _He_ , it seems, leans back to watch Patrick’s facial expression. Which is horror, but it’s not horror at ‘a dude in a fucking skirt’, it’s horror because Patrick wasn’t judging and hating it, Patrick was sort of. Into it. Or, no, _extremely_ into it.

“It’s—it’s not like that,” Patrick leans over. “I swear!”

The stranger rolls his eyes. “Yeah right, asshole. _Suck my dick_. I look fucking good.”

Patrick throws his hands up. “No! I’m—I was, I was looking at you because you’re—because I’m into it!"

Unnamed hot guy raises his eyebrows, silently motioning for Patrick to explain further.

"And, and I’m sorry, okay, I—I don’t know, you just looked like you were having fun and your whole outfit is, is so fucking hot, and I’m kinda drunk, so I didn’t think I was staring that hard, I swear I didn’t mean anything bad about it, you’re just… hot.”

Stranger-dressed-up-as-the-Devil doesn’t say anything about that, even though the tension in his shoulders have lessened. Patrick can’t read his expression, can’t tell if he likes that answer, or if he’s going to grab Patrick’s drink and throw it on him. The only thing that Patrick knows is that the glitter in his lipgloss is so inviting.

Patrick’s beginning to regret wearing sweatpants.

When he leans over to yell into Patrick’s ear, he sounds more reigned in. “The fuck are you supposed to be anyway? You look like a fucking creep in your sweatpants and socks. And _turtleneck_.”

Patrick looks down sheepishly, because he doesn’t want to explain his shitty costume, and he jolts when the stranger’s hands reach for his face, to bring him closer so he can yell in his ear again. “My name’s Pete, by the way. I need a cigarette break. Let’s go outside.”

Another thing about Patrick is that he’s asthmatic and therefore shouldn’t _necessarily_ be sitting next to people who smoke. But, he stands up and follows Pete out the door without even thinking twice about it.

Patrick is instantly reminded of the temperature change once he steps foot outside, so he’s thankful for his winter coat. Pete, however, looks like he’s freezing his ass off. He sits on the porch steps and he motions for Patrick to sit next to him, but Patrick doesn’t move. Mostly because this Pete guy seems like a ticking time-bomb. Mostly because he never does this, pursue hot guys at parties. Mostly because Pete’s so hot and Patrick doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Sit down,” Pete tells him, now in an inside voice even though they’re not inside. The colored purple lights that Vicky strung up and wrapped around the porch posts illuminate Pete's dark skin. “I was lying about the cigarette thing, I don’t smoke. Or drink. I just wanted to get you alone.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Patrick says, stuffing his hands in pockets, looking for a way to escape, because Pete’s legs look so good in the fishnets and his red heels are sparkling, because Pete’s cocking his head to the side and he looks so handsome, and he wants to get Patrick _alone_ , and this is unbelievable.

“Just Pete,” Pete grins. His smile takes up his entire face and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Come on, dude. I think you’re cute. You think I’m hot. Let’s talk, you looked fuckin’ bored in there anyways. The skirts thing isn’t a regular thing though, so don’t get it twisted.”

“No, it’s not a, a fetish or anything like that,” Patrick tells him, still standing. “I like the way you dance.”

Pete looks genuinely pleased. “Aww, and I liked the way you stared at me now that I know you weren’t being a dick. _Sit down._ ”

Patrick’s face still burns with the memory of literally two minutes ago, of Pete lashing out at him, but he sits down anyway. Pete smells like sweat and perfume and when Pete looks at him directly, the sparkles from his eyeshadow and his lip gloss catch the colors coming from the lights from inside. Patrick’s dreaming, he’s sure of it.

“So. What are you supposed to be?” Pete asks him. He wraps his arms around himself, to keep himself warm. The top has sleeves, but since they’re sheer, they’re no help to him. His tattoos peak out from underneath, not enough for Patrick to be able to read them, but enough for Patrick to know that they’re there.

Patrick begins to shrug out of his winter coat.

“Cold,” Patrick tells him. “ _‘What’re you?’_ _‘I’m cold’._ ”

He hands Pete his coat. “You look cold too, though. I have my turtleneck, y’know, if you wanna borrow this.”

Pete blinks at him, and then blinks down at the coat. “Oh. Uh, thanks, but I sort of have to maintain the whore-ish vibe of the outfit. I’m like a sexy Devil, or something like that. It was just an excuse to wear the skirt and the beret, to be honest.”

Even though he tells Patrick he’s not going to wear the coat, he keeps it draped over his exposed legs, like a blanket.

“Well, I think you look good,” Patrick tells him, and then his face flushes red again. “I’ve been saying that a lot. Sorry, I’m like. Half tipsy right now and I have a serious case of liquid courage.”

“No, you’re doing awesome.” Pete grins. “What’s, uh, what’s your name?”

“Patrick,” he tells Pete, and then he laughs nervously. “Um. What’s up?”

“Sitting on Vicky-T’s porch…” he says. “Talking to _Patrick_. Uh… trying to figure out why you thought that costume was good because it’s not…”

“It’s a long story,” Patrick tells him. “And it’s stupid. Also, what’s up with the ‘T’ in Vicky-T? It’s on her nametag at work and she won’t tell me what it means.”

“I don’t mind, I have a lot of time.” Pete smiles at him again. Patrick’s half convinced that this is a trap. “Come on, Gabe’s not playing another MJ song for another 20 minutes, I saw his playlist, so I’m not gonna be tempted to go back in. And dude, fuck if I know where the ‘T’ is from, and I’ve known her since high school. You know Vic from work?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “She’s in bedding, I’m in bath. And… well, I don’t really go out a lot. So everyone made bets on me not agreeing to come, but I decided to come, and now I’m here, but I didn’t want to put in effort and… and get noticed, so I just. Yeah. No one pays about the guy in the winter coat, which is the way I like it, and then you...”

“Scared you half to death and then a minute later convinced you to come out and talk to me?” Pete asks. “Sorry. You don’t like Halloween, I take it.”

Patrick shakes his head. “I hate it.”

It’s strange for Patrick to fall so quickly into conversation with someone, especially someone like Pete, Pete who’s— still sort of mesmerizing Patrick. Just the way that Pete moves, the way he talks, he’s a fantasy and Patrick knows that fantasy men don’t ever like him back, but for right now, on the porch with Rihanna’s “Disturbia”  in the background, he can allow himself to fall into this.

“I can’t believe that,” Pete says, shaking his head. The big hoops move with the action. “I loveeeeeeeeee it. Especially scary movies! But my favorite Halloween movie has got to be Nightmare Before Christmas. I even have a tattoo of it!”

Pete shows Patrick a sheer-covered tattoo. “I watch it once a week, seriously, that’s how much I love this holiday. I have a problem.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Your first problem is that Nightmare Before Christmas isn’t a Halloween movie.”

Pete, who’s been giggly and flirty with Patrick practically this whole time, suddenly drops the act. “. _..what_?”

“I mean… it’s a Christmas movie,” Patrick says, like it’s obvious. “It’s all about Christmas.”

“I’m sorry. Did we watch the same movie?” Pete asks. “It’s a Halloween movie.”

“‘ _What’s This’_ is a Christmas song,” Patrick tells him, and Pete makes a guttural sound that would be comparable to if Patrick took out a knife and stabbed him in the stomach. “What?! _‘This is Halloween’_ is a Halloween song! _‘What’s This’_ is about him seeing Christmas and being like _what the fuck is this?_ Are you-- what?!”

“I just. I just consider it a Christmas movie,” Patrick argues. “It’s almost entirely about Christmas! It’s Christmas music and it’s Christmas themes and it’s Christmas imagery, and it’s- how do you watch something so rooted in Christmas and watch it during Halloween?!”

“IT’S ROOTED IN _HALLOWEEN_!” Pete yells at him. “It’s- what’s the opening number again? It’s about, it’s—Halloween! Those characters are creepy looking, do you watch creepy things during Christmas? No, you watch it, you—I can’t get words out. That’s how much my mind is blown right now. I’ve never heard someone say something so out of touch with reality!"

“The sentiment behind it is _Christmas-y!_ ” Patrick tells him, yelling too.

“IT’S NOT,” Pete throws his hands up. “IT’S ABOUT LEARNING TO LOVE THE EXCELLENCE OF HALLOWEEN, SOMETHING YOU CLEARLY DON’T UNDERSTAND.”

This is not where Patrick thought his conversation with Pete would go. But, he’s too pumped up to even think about regrets.

“IT’S ABOUT CHRISTMAS,” Patrick stands up to argue, because his body is filled with so much energy. “A MOVIE THAT TAKES PLACE DURING CHRISTMAS IS A CHRISTMAS MOVIE, NO MATTER HOW _SPOOKY_ IT IS. IT’S NOT CALLED THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE _HALLOWEEN_ , IT’S-”

Pete stands up too, so much taller than Patrick is just because of added height of the heels, and he gets up in Patrick’s face too. “JACK SKELLINGTON IS THE EPITOME OF HALLOWEEN, _PATRICK_. AND IT WAS RELEASED IN OCTOBER. SO IT’S A FUCKING HALLOWEEN MOVIE.”

Patrick laughs, shaking his head. “You’re delusional! YOU’RE INSANE, _PETE_ , IF YOU THINK THAT-”

“WHO LOOKS AT OOGIE BOOGIE AND THINKS ABOUT CHRISTMAS?! AND YOU SAID, you said something about Christmas imagery? Are you blind? ARE YOU _BLIND_?! HAVE YOU EVER _FUCKING_ WATCHED-”

Pete looks around wildly for a moment, before he motions to a jack-o-lantern sitting a couple of feet away. “ _JACK_ SKELLINGTON? _JACK_ -O-LANTERN??”

“Hey,” someone interrupts them, and both Pete and Patrick, heaving with anger, turn to look at some dude who’s dressed as The Joker and holding a cigarette. “It’s a Thanksgiving movie. You watch it between Halloween and Christmas because it’s a movie for both holidays.”

This almost sends Patrick into cardiac arrest.

Pete burst into not giggles, but this ugly kind of cackling laughter that under any other circumstance, Patrick would find endearing.

And it’s a little embarrassing just how much Patrick loses his shit while defending the holiday status of fucking Nightmare Before Christmas, but by the time Patrick’s done, the guy that he screamed at calls him an asshole, and Pete’s wiping his eyes because he was laughing so hard.

“It’s not,” Patrick’s breathing heavily when he turns around to face Pete, and he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand because he was _sweating_. “It’s not funny.”

Pete’s makeup has run, but for some reason, it completes his look quite nicely . “You’re right, it wasn’t funny. It was fucking _hilarious_. It’s cute how much you defend your shitty opinion.”

“Can we just agree to disagree,” Patrick grumbles. “I have a headache.”

“Yeah, being around me will do that,” Pete jokes, before he makes a face that tells Patrick that it really wasn't a joke. “Anyways, though, that was hot. I mean, it’s not hot that you think that Nightmare Before Christmas is a Christmas movie, but it’s hot that we just totally got up each other’s faces.”

Patrick didn’t think it was hot, he sort of watched to punch Pete because of it. But he thinks back to it, to Pete getting up in his face,  to the point that the only thing that Patrick could smell and feel and hear was Pete and nevermind, it was sort of hot.

“Right, because arguing is attractive,” Patrick rolls his eyes, just to be difficult.

“Not _arguing…_ I just like that you weren't like ‘let me pretend that my shitty opinion doesn’t exist’, you were like ‘I embrace my shitty opinion!’”

“Stop calling it shitty, you know it’s true and I’ve ruined Nightmare Before Christmas for you for good. Now, every time you watch it, you’re going to think about how right I am about it being a Christmas movie,” Patrick tells him, with a smug smile on his face, and he means it in an innocent enough way, but then Pete’s grabbing his hand, and looking into his eyes, and _oh shit._ Everything is turning into goo in his brain. No, slime. _Green_ slime. He feels like his brain is oozing out of his ears and spilling onto his feet. 

“Every time I watch it, I’m going to think of _you,_ not anything else,” Pete tells him. “You’re kind of crazy, you know that?”

“ _I’m_ crazy?” Patrick asks, his voice cracking. “You’re the one who-”

“Babe,” Pete interrupts him.

Patrick swears his heart is going to jump straight out of his chest, and Pete calling him that was going to be the reason why. “You yelled at a stranger for five minutes straight about a movie. You’re _certifiable_. And my favorite part about it was that it totally wasn’t liquid courage, that was all you.”

“I get defensive over things I like,” Patrick says, pulling his hand from Pete’s grasp, so he can cross his arms over his chest. “And I like Halloween movies.”

There’s a moment of silence before a light goes off behind Pete’s eyes and Patrick’s already back-tracking, "Wait, no, I meant to say-"

“IN YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS YOU KNOWWW IT’S A HALLOWEEN MOVIE!” Pete screams at him, doubling over in laughter, and when he loses his balance because of the heels, he and Patrick go tumbling to the floor of the porch. Patrick bangs his head, Pete’s beret gets knocked off, so his long red bangs get into Patrick's eyes, and they land in a predicament where Patrick is lying on top of Pete, a little lopsided. 

Almost naturally, Pete shifts until he's in a position where all Patrick had to do was duck down, to be able to kiss him. Where all Pete had to do was lean up on his elbows.

The sound of a familiar door creaking followed by footsteps stops them from making out right then and there. Patrick looks at Pete and Pete looks at Patrick, and Pete mouths ‘ _Thriller_?’ and Patrick nods.

And then the two of them scrabble to get back inside the house and on the dance floor for the opening notes of “Thriller” because _duh_. That’s a lot more important than making out.

The speakers shake with the power behind the synthesizers for the opening notes, but the _house_ itself seems to shake with the power of everyone shouting their approval for the song choice. Pete grabs Patrick’s hands and pulls him further into the crowd on the dance floor, until they’re forced to dance closer together because there’s no more space left. Patrick sings along to the song because it’s “Thriller” – everyone knows and loves “Thriller” and Pete sings back, and they’re dancing with other and Patrick has no rhythm at all, his dancing is mostly swaying, but Pete guides him as he twists and moves his body to the bassline. Patrick feels like he’s in a weird sweaty version of heaven, and that heightened sense of _ohmygodeverythingisperfectatthismoment_ only increases when Pete almost hits him in the face because he’s feeling the music so hard. Pete’s dancing isn’t sexy, but paired with the fishnets and the skirt, _fuck_ , and the heels, there’s something that pulls Patrick in and refuses to let go, even when Pete’s hands do smack him in the face once or twice.

“You know how to do _the dance_?” Pete asks him as the bridge of the song approaches, yelling in his ear over the music again, and Patrick nods, pulling Pete closer so that he can be heard. “Yeah, but there’s no fucking way I’m gonna do it!”

“Pussy,” Pete grins at him, as he kicks his heels into some corner. “ _I’m_ gonna. It’s gonna be like that scene in 13 going on 30, though, like I’m gonna drag you in to help me out.”

“I’ve never seen that movie so—“ Patrick can’t finish his sentence, because Pete’s already skipping away to find his friends, who are scattered among the, what? 330 square feet that they have? There's about five of them that move to the center of the floor and Pete starts the zombie dance from the “Thriller” music video just like that. Just like no one is watching him, even though everyone’s watching him. He awkwardly shuffles and the hip thrusting is juuuuuuuuuuuuuust on the right side of ridiculous.

“Pete, I can’t watch this, the second-hand embarrassment, I’m-“ Patrick speaks to no one in particular, since Pete isn’t next to Patrick or pressed up next to him, he’s just dancing, and before Patrick knows it, before he can even object, Pete’s grabbing his hand again, pulling him so hard that Patrick momentarily bumps into him. He looks at Patrick with gooey, doe-y eyes, now that they're eye-level, and that’s all it really takes for Patrick to go into a dance routine so familiar to him that he could do it in his sleep. From the corner of his eye, he can see Travie, because Travie is a _giant_ , and he sees Travie’s phone out, but then Pete’s by his side with his cackling laughter as he fumbles through the routine and then it’s okay. There’s no anxiety bubbling in his stomach, the only thing in his body is. Well, Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”.

The song ends on a high note- Pete tripping for real and falling onto his ass just as the iconic laugh vibrates throughout the living room. Patrick’s laugh mimics this one, and when Pete comes back up, he’s laughing too. “See!” Pete screams. “I told you! 13 going on 30 style.”

“I haven’t seen it!” Patrick screams back, and Pete rolls his eyes playfully as he starts dancing to the next song on the playlist- “She Wolf” by Shakira. “I’m about 70% sure that there’s a scene that takes place during Christmas, you wanna classify it as a Christmas movie too?”

Patrick flips him off and goes to take his seat back into the corner of the living room because Shakira doesn’t make him lose his shit the way that Michael Jackson does, and Pete frowns. “Wait, you’re just leaving me?”

“I don’t dance,” Patrick tells him and Pete blinks at him. “Yes, you do. You just did, like, that whole thing, and you were definitely matching my hip movements there.”

So, Pete might have been grinding on Patrick and Patrick might have been grinding right back. What’s a guy to do?

“Yeah, but that’s _Michael Jackson,_ this is—y’know. Shakira?”

Pete gives him an exasperated look. The beret was knocked off a while ago, but Patrick’s only now paying attention to Pete’s hair, and the red bangs that matches the red in the rest of his outfit. Pete's idea of dressing as the Devil was really working in his favor, because _god_ , is Patrick just tempted by him. He decides in a split second that he's got nothing to lose. So, he gets up out of his seat and allows Pete to latch onto him. Pete howls in his ear when Shakira does it in the chorus, and he leans his body back on Patrick’s even though Patrick’s still so much smaller than him, and he makes stupid and annoying comments during every song and...

And Patrick's seriously half in love by the time that Pete's stepped on his toes for the 17th time in a minute. 

* * *

“Can I kiss you again?” Pete asks, swinging his feet as he sits on top of Vicky-T’s kitchen counter. There’s coffee slowly dripping into the coffee pot, Pete’s got his whole hand in a bag of Sour Cream and Onion chips, and Patrick’s rummaging through the refrigerator since he’s on ‘find some milk for Pete’s coffee’ duty.

“Because that was fun,” Pete continues to say, when Patrick doesn’t move. “I’m gonna get turned on every time I listen to ‘Monster Mash’ now.”

Patrick, who’s still actively searching the fridge, smiles to himself. Maybe kissing Pete for the first time while they were on the dance floor and listening to “Monster Mash” was the lamest thing to exist _ever_ , but he thinks back to twirling Pete around and dipping him, and then just going for it and leaning down to kiss him. And then Pete immediately sticking his tongue in Patrick’s mouth and dragging him down to the nearest chair so that they could make-out properly.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, carton of milk in hand, and he closes the fridge door. “Me too. I’m just going to be envisioning your tongue, just—“

Pete silences him with a kiss. This is one is a little more chaste, even with Pete’s clean hand curled in his hair. Pete is warm, he tastes like potato chips and sprite and cherry lipgloss, and when Patrick pulls away to catch his breath, a line of saliva momentarily connects them. Pete wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, Patrick licks his lips free of the sticky lipgloss, and they both laugh.

“Did you want some?” Pete asks, slipping back onto the ground from his spot on the counter to get his coffee ready, now that he’s gotten that kiss out of his system. “I’m sure Vics has Bailey’s somewhere if you’re tryna make your drink alcoholic.”

“No, I’m okay,” Patrick tells him, moving back towards the food on the island. There isn’t a meal option, per say, it’s a lot of cupcakes and brownies and chips and salsa, but there’s nothing there that really catches his eye. That is, until Pete points at a particular plate of cookies. “Those are good. But I’m a little biased since I made the motherfuckers.”

“Are they laced with something?” Patrick asks, and Pete shakes his head. “I’m not really into drugs right now either, I’m trying this straight edge thing? So no. Well, it’s laced with _love_. Although, that’s kind of a drug too…”

Patrick raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He just reaches for one of the cookies. “They’re chocolate chip, right?” he asks, and Pete nods.

And that’s all the confirmation he needs.

He takes a bite out of one of Pete’s cookies, moaning exaggeratedly because Pete’s watching him carefully to see what he thinks. The cookie tastes not awful but not that spectacular either, and then he swallows.

And then he feels something weird.

And then he _tastes_ something weird.

It coats his tongue and he feels it all the way into his throat and he blinks. He sets the cookie down and blinks again.

“Pete,” he says. It might just be in his head, but even his voice sounds off.

“Patrick,” Pete says back, looking down at the unfinished cookie. “What the fuck man, I thought you were liking it.”

“Pete,” he repeats. And no, that really unsettling taste remains in his mouth. He can feel it everywhere in his body, oddly enough. Like every cell in his body is on high alert. “Do you. Do you put _peanuts_ in your _chocolate chip cookies_.”

“Uh, yeah,” Pete says, watching Patrick carefully, cautiously. “A little bit of peanut butter. It’s my secret ingredient. Why… why do you—“

“ _Oh my God_ , who puts peanut butter in as a secret ingredient?!” Patrick shouts at him, before he forces himself to calm down, because if his throat closing up on him in approximately 10 minutes doesn’t kill him, a panic attack most definitely will.

Unfortunately for him, however, _Pete_ is the one who starts hyperventilating. “Fuck, Patrick, _fuck_ , what do—are your allergies bad?! Are you gonna die, are you, should I call an ambulance, do you have a, do you have, why didn’t you say, I’m gonna go get, no, I have to stay with you, Patrick _SAY SOMETHING_.”

Already, his throat feels strange, and he can feel his face start to itch—hives. The room feels a little too hot, combined with his body acting out on him, the huge winter coat that he’s still wearing, and the fact that he’s really starting to stress out because how is he going to do this, he’d rather die, he’d rather _DIE_ than to be dragged out of the party on a stretcher, and he doesn’t want to use his Epi-Pen but also doesn’t want his life to end right at this second, and—

“I have an Epi-Pen,” Patrick tells him, calmly.

“ _SO WHERE IS IT?!”_ Pete shouts at him, the opposite of calmly.

Patrick reaches into his pocket and he squeezes his eyes shut because combined with the music and the smell of the Sour Cream and Onion on Pete, and the taste of peanuts still in his mouth, it’s all far too much. Oh, and the thought about dying. And the way he’s going to help pay for this hospital bill.

“Wait, wait, you have to promise something,” Patrick says, feeling his heart race in his chest. “You can’t call an ambulance, okay.”

“What the fuck else am I supposed to do, let you die?!” Pete asks, and he starts frantically looking around for a phone. “DO THE EPI-PEN THING! HURRY UP!”

“STOP YELLING!” Patrick yells at him, and with shaky hands, he pulls his Epi-Pen out of his pocket, suddenly so thankful that Travie reminded him to bring it. “Do you know who Travie is? I need—I can’t leave without him.”

“Travie left with William,” Pete tells him, with wide eyes. “Super tall guy dressed as a vampire? Making out with the guy dressed as also a vampire? He didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Patrick says, and _that’s_ when he starts to freak out. “No, he didn’t fucking tell me, because why would he tell me, the person that he came with, right, because—“

“I’ll take you,” Pete blurts out. “I’m completely sober, I’ll take you to the ER. Just—JUST DO THE EPI-PEN THING BEFORE YOU START DYING ON ME!!!!!”

“OKAY!” Patrick shouts, uncapping the Epi-Pen and swinging it into this thigh in a second, just like how he remembers in all of those educational videos that he was forced to watch in the doctor’s office. It clicks, so Patrick knows that it’s working, but he doesn’t feel anything besides pure and unadulterated panic in his chest. Because, because nothing drastic is happening right now, and maybe he didn’t need to use his Epi-Pen, maybe he could have taken some Benadryl, but now he has no choice to go to the emergency room and—

“Fuck,” Pete says, watching Patrick pull the Epi-Pen from his thigh and set it on the counter. “We gotta go, fuck, isn’t the wait-time on that thing like 30 minutes?”

“Like 15,” Patrick says, and he can’t even bring himself to laugh when he sees Pete’s eyes widen even more than they already have. “I feel fine, I—“

He doesn’t. Everything feels horrible.

“Let’s go,” Pete tells him. “You look… not good.”

He _feels_ not good. Like his face is on fire.

The next couple of minutes are a blur. Mostly because he’s focusing on breathing and not dying. The weirdest thing about it, though, is that Patrick really trusts Pete, and maybe it’s because he has no other choice, but he genuinely _does_ trust him even though Pete’s sorta the reason why he’s in this predicament in the first place. Whatever music Pete’s playing in his speakers goes in ear and out the other as Pete speeds down the road, because Patrick’s stuck in his head about what to do when he gets to the hospital, how he has to stay conscious no matter what because Pete knows nothing about him, and how he’s gonna pay for this shit because… alright, he’s under his parents insurance, but everything else?

He sinks further into his seat as Pete makes a totally illegal turn. This is why he doesn’t go to parties.

* * *

After hours ( _hours_ ) of sitting in the ER, being checked in and retrieving anti-histamines in large doses that leave him feeling drowsy and tired, and getting berated because _‘no, Mr. Stump, you really could have died, it was very smart of you to use your Epi-Pen when you did. However, your decision to not call an ambulance was something I wouldn’t recommend in the future’_ , and after getting his whole financial situation worked out (he’s still under his parent’s insurance, and the rest of it was paid off by some Wentz III. He doesn’t question this _in the slightest_ \- if someone wants to pay off his bills, he’ll let them do that, he’s not going to question something free.)

He doesn’t have his phone with him, that was left somewhere at Vicky’s, so he goes into the waiting room to use one of the phones that they have at the front desk to call Travie. To yell at him for not telling him that he was going to be leaving with someone, but also to ask him to pick him up.

However, when he goes into the waiting room, he sees _Pete_. Pete, who Patrick had just assumed left once he was admitted in.

“Hey,” Patrick says, resting a hand on Pete’s shoulder. Pete, who’s been sitting with his phone plugged into a wall, practically jumps out of his seat when he sees who it is. “Patrick!”

“Pete!” Patrick exclaims a little hesistantly, giving Pete a confused look after Pete finishes giving him a bear hug. “What’re you—did you wait for me?”

Pete blinks, like this was obvious. “Um. Yes? You didn’t have your phone and I mean, it’s my fault. I wanted to sit vigil at your bedside but they wouldn’t allow me in there.”

Pete looks… different in the daylight. Patrick knows this because it’s 7:30 in the morning, and the light filters through the large windows in the waiting room. He’s still wearing his costume, the hooker heels and the fishnets and the skirt, but he’s wrapped up in Patrick’s jacket so the outfit doesn’t look as scandalous as it would if he wasn’t covered up. But there’s something soft about him now, the way that sleepiness looks on him. The hoop earrings are sitting inside the beret that’s sitting on Pete’s lap but Pete’s face is still sparkly from the make-up and basically, Patrick’s very thankful to be alive, because this sight was worth it.

“Isn’t sitting vigil for, y’know… the dead?” Patrick asks, taking a seat next to Pete. He instinctively curls into Pete’s body, leaning his head onto Pete’s chest, craving warmth because he just wants to sleep. Or no. Eat and then sleep. 

“No offense, Trix,” Pete says. “But you kinda looked like you were dying, especially towards the end when your throat really closed up? It was endearing, though. Just like—“

“Oh, me almost _dying_ is endearing?!”

“—us arguing yesterday. Like, awww. We’re at a level where we can be near death with each other and not worry about looking ugly.”

Patrick just grumbles.

They’re silent for a moment, savoring in this moment. Patrick’s head on Pete’s chest, Pete’s arm wrapped around Patrick, the both of them looking a little crazy because Pete looks like a stripper and Patrick looks like he just came back from the dead…

“I can’t believe you stayed,” Patrick tells him. “Really. I appreciate it even though you tried to kill me with that secret ingredient.”

“It’s a shame that you’re allergic to peanuts, my recipe is so good,” Pete brags half-heartedly. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I wanna get breakfast and I hate hospitals.”

“ _Same_ ,” Patrick groans, dragging himself away from the warmth of Pete’s chest. “I want breakfast and I want to just lay in bed and do nothing.”

“Can we…. I don’t know. Lie in bed and do nothing together?” Pete asks sheepishly. It’s hard to picture _sheepish_ and _Pete_ , but it’s real and it’s happening. But for how shy he’s acting, he’s also being very forward. Patrick knew this about from the get-go, remembering the way that Pete just came up to him and told him off.

“Yeah,” Patrick grins. He holds a hand out so that Pete can get up out of the seat that he’s been residing in for the past 5 hours. “I would love that. As long we watch a Halloween movie. Y’know. Like what Nightmare before Christmas _isn’t_.”

“Hey, take that shit back, Stumph.” Pete warns him, an easy smile on his face. “Or else I’m not paying for breakfast.”

There’s a lot of ways the past 12 hours could have gone. Patrick could have decided to stay home. Patrick could have been social and he could have never stepped foot on the dance floor. Patrick could have gotten too embarrassed about Pete seeing him staring that he didn’t want to entertain Pete’s suggestion to go outside. Patrick could have decided to be smarter and to ask if the cookie had peanuts in them. But, as he jams out with Pete to the Rocky Horror soundtrack on their way to IHOP, he decides that the night went pretty well in spite of everything that went horribly wrong.

The only thing that he would change is Pete’s opinion that Nightmare before Christmas is a Halloween movie. Because that opinion is just… fucking terrible.

**Author's Note:**

> my allergies are nowhere as bad as patricks, like if i eat peanuts i can tell Immediately bc my body is like 'this aint it sis' but i just mostly puke it outta my system and then i feel like shit for the rest of the day. BUT PLZ DONT FORGET TO BRING YOUR EPI-PEN WHEREVER U GO!!! 
> 
> anyways i was really rushed for time and i fdfjksdfjkdf WANTED THIS TO BE REALLY GOOD but in actuality i just feel kinda. Eh about it. but i havent uploaded something that WASNT eapotato since literally FEBRUARY (so unlike me but a bitch is busy...) and so i felt an obligation to post something because duh, i need to support the tag and also i :( MISS writing them as carefree and dumb... only nbh!pete would put peanut butter in his cookies as a secret ingredient and not specify it.. eapotato pete would have a genuine heart-attack at the thought of that...


End file.
